Small Minded People and Chocolate Cake
by fbeauchamphartz
Summary: Burt Hummel gets called in to Kurt's school when nine year old Kurt starts acting unusual. kid!Kurt. Kurt H. Burt H.


**A/N: Written for the Hummel Holidays prompt 'baking', and inspired by personal events, with a nod to King of the Hill.**

"Mr. Hummel?"

Burt Hummel walks into the counselor's office at Golden Bridge Academy and right away spots his son. Kurt, looking so small in the chair he's sitting in, peeks up at his dad with sad eyes. Burt gives his son a wave, but Kurt only sighs and stares down at his shoes. Burt wants to go to his son and give him a hug, but he doesn't know what any of this is about, and now doesn't seem like the time or place.

If only Elizabeth were here. She was always better at handling things like this than he is. She'd know what to do.

Burt had been sent to the counselor's office loads when he was Kurt's age, and to the principal's office twice as many times. They all pretty much look alike – neutral painted walls covered in framed diplomas; unnecessarily large, dark wood desk, piled with neat stacks of files and paperwork; a pretentious number of books on the shelves, each with perfectly intact spines; and never enough lighting to make anyone feel at ease. He remembers a time when being called in to the office was the worst feeling in the world. He hadn't been in too many of these offices because of Kurt, but it doesn't get any easier as you get older.

"Yes, Mr. Pirelli?"

The man behind the desk peers up at Burt through sandy brown bangs combed in a neat sweep across his forehead, and motions to an empty chair in front of his desk. Burt sits in the shiny, green-vinyl upholstered chair, the stiff seat cushion squeaking beneath his weight.

"I called you into my office today because, frankly, I have some concerns."

Burt looks from the school counselor, Mr. Pirelli, to his son sitting in an identical high back chair a short distance from him, staring at his hands folded in his lap, eyes following his twiddling thumbs, looking remorseful, uncomfortable, but also depressed, which bothers Burt most.

"What concerns do you have?" Burt asks. "I didn't realize there were any."

"They aren't _major_ concerns, per se," Mr. Pirelli says, "but I _have_ gotten notes from a few of his teachers. They've mentioned that he seems a bit…withdrawn."

"Well" – Burt shifts his gaze to his boy, wishing they could have this conversation with him out in the hall – "his mom only passed a year ago." Kurt's bent head bows deeper - exactly what Burt wanted to avoid. "He's not going to be too outgoing. That's why I took him out of public school and put him in private school, in the hopes that he'll be in a more _sensitive_ environment."

"And we completely appreciate the faith you have in us," Mr. Pirelli responds with a grin that Burt doesn't feel is sincere enough considering the circumstances. "We only have his best interests at heart."

"Okay, so why don't you tell me what's on your mind?" Burt asks, trying to move the conversation along for the sake of his son. "As far as I knew, his grades are exceptional, and he doesn't have any disciplinary issues."

"As you know, we're a bit lenient with our curriculum here," Mr. Pirelli explains. "Still, we have some expectations for our students that your son is just not quite fulfilling."

"Such as…"

"Boys his age, we like to see them get involved in extracurricular activities."

"He has those," Burt says. "He takes singing lessons from one of the local high school students, he's in the drama club here, and he goes to ballet once a week at a studio near my shop. Your gal in admissions said those were fine to fulfill your requirements."

"They are," Mr. Pirelli agrees, "but I was personally thinking more along the lines of team sports, like baseball, football, or soccer."

Burt looks at his son and raises an eyebrow. "And he doesn't want to participate?"

"Well, it seems that sign-ups for youth sports went up last week, and your son opted out of them."

"Did he give you a reason?" Burt asks, not keen about talking in front of Kurt as if he isn't even there.

"He said there's a cooking class he wants to take at the rec center, and being on a sports team might get in the way."

Burt nods, side-eyeing his son after this new information.

"I'll admit, this is the first I've heard about a cooking class…"

"And we found these." Mr. Pirelli reaches in his bottom drawer and pulls out a handful of magazines – Marie Claire, Good Housekeeping, Better Homes and Gardens. Burt picks up the one on top and flips through it, noticing that Kurt had dog-eared a few pages.

"So these magazines are…"

"He brought them to school with them," the counselor says as some sort of reassurance. "He didn't get those here."

"So, you confiscated his personal property?"

"Uh…yes," Mr. Pirelli answers nervously.

"Was he reading them during class or something?"

"Not to my knowledge. He reads them at recess and at lunch instead of playing with his peers."

"I see." Burt looks at his son. Kurt doesn't often slouch, but if there was any way for him to curl up in a ball and hide underneath his seat, he would have done it in a second. "Out of curiosity, are these requirements for your students across the board?"

This time, Mr. Pirelli raises a brow. "What do you mean?"

"I mean, if I had a daughter and not a son…"

"Well, we have the same expectations for our girls as we do our boys."

"But, if I had a daughter in your school who opted out of sports for cooking, and brought these magazines to school, would we be having this meeting?"

Mr. Pirelli's eyebrows draw in the middle, slightly confused.

"We encourage our young women to follow whatever path they choose," Mr. Pirelli says with pride. "In fact, we have one of the only all-girl elementary level football teams in the state."

"Ah," Burt says. "I see. Well, what do you suggest?"

"What I would like to do, right here, right now, is start a dialogue. Mr. Hummel, let's begin with you. Is there something you would like to say to your son about this? Anything you'd like to ask? Any feelings you want to express?"

"Yeah" - Burt shifts in his seat – "yeah, I've got a question." Burt picks up the magazine in his lap and flips through the pages, perusing the content. He stops on one article, dog-eared at the top and the bottom, and folds the magazine in half. "Kurt?" Burt clears his throat, looking from the photo on the page, then over at his son, still not looking up, waiting for what he can only imagine is about to happen.

"Yes, dad?" Kurt says.

His father drops the magazine in his son's lap, with the picture facing up, and jabs at it with his finger.

"Do you think you can make that?" Burt asks, indicating a photograph of a three layer fudge cake topped with homemade frosting, dusted with powdered sugar, and garnished with berries. "Because, I won't lie, it looks really good."

Kurt looks up at his straight-faced father, who gives him a wink.

"Yeah," Kurt says, going back to the article and reading over the steps. "I mean, we might not have some of these ingredients at home but…"

"Well, we'll stop off at the supermarket and pick up what you need."

"Yeah?" Kurt looks at his father with a glowing smile.

"Yeah, kiddo," his father says, reaching over to mess up his hair.

"Mr. Hummel," Mr. Pirelli protests, "I don't think you understand…"

"No," Burt interrupts, "I don't think I do. How dare you call me out of work and try to tell me that there's something wrong with my boy when there's nothing at all wrong with him? What? There's a problem with a nine year old boy who's interested in _baking_? What if he was a thirty-five year old man interested in baking? With his own successful restaurant? You'd call it an art, right? You'd probably go eat there."

"Mr. Hummel," Mr. Pirelli starts in a calm and condescending tone, trying to gain back control of the conversation, but Burt won't have it.

"Don't _Mr. Hummel_ me. You want to punish my boy because of what he likes to read, or the things he enjoys? What gives you the right to imply he's _abnormal_ because he doesn't like baseball? He hasn't even reached double-digits yet and he can rebuild the transmission on almost any GM vehicle made. Can you do that, Mr. Pirelli?"

"Well, n-no," the counselor stutters, fidgeting with the position of his blotter, straightening it on his desk, "I can't, but…"

"Well, what the hell's wrong with you?" Burt asks, standing from his seat and snatching his son's magazines off the counselor's desk. "Not interested in cars? Don't you think a man your age should be interested in cars?"

"Mr. Hum—"

Only half the name comes out of the counselor's mouth, but a steely glare from Burt Hummel's usually kind, compassionate eyes stops his tongue cold.

"The next time you call me into this office, it had better be for a real, genuine emergency, like he's bleeding, or missing a finger. Your school seems to be suffering from a blaring case of double standard, and you'd better find a cure. Otherwise, I'll be taking my son out of your school and spending my money on tuition at a more open-minded institution, even if I have to drive my son to and from Columbus every day. Do you understand?"

Mr. Pirelli may have said yes. He may have just sat there and stared. Burt and his son don't know. Burt led Kurt out of the office by his arm while they talked back and forth about how wonderful it was going to be having chocolate cake for dinner.


End file.
